Kitabı oku: «A Search For A Secret: A Novel. Volume 3», sayfa 10
CHAPTER XII
FOUND!
After Father Eustace had gone, Sophy sat herself down in the kitchen, and watched the clock for ten minutes, in case her master might have forgotten something, and driven back again to fetch it. That time passed, she did not hesitate a moment; but went at once up to her room, unlocked her box, and took from it the things which she had long ago prepared for her enterprise. Then she proceeded to undress herself, and put on the clothes she had laid ready on the bed. All this was done quickly, but yet without hurry. She appeared as if she had so thoroughly rehearsed the actions she was performing that there was not the least hesitation or delay in any of her movements. Then she took off the dark wig which had so much changed her, and put on another, with close-cut hair, and a tonsure shaved upon it; and in five minutes Sophy Gregory was gone, and a Roman Catholic ecclesiastic stood in her place. The clothes had been carefully padded to conceal the extreme slightness of her figure. The wig she had put on was nearly grey; and with some pigments she laid on lines at the corner of her eyes, her forehead, and round her lips. She also slightly tinged her cheeks and chin, to represent the dark marks of the shorn whiskers and beard. All this she did with care, but very quickly. Her hand never hesitated: night after night she had tried the effect of each line. And now her disguise was so complete that it would have required, a close observer, even by daylight, to detect that it was not a man of fifty, with a slight, very short, well-preserved figure who stood before him.
As Sophy went out of the door it was a little over half-past seven; Father Eustace had started at seven; it was still broad day out of doors, but indoors the light was fading, and in another half-hour it would be quite dusk, for it was now at the end of August.
Sophy locked the door behind her, and walked fast up the hill out of the village, past the plantation, to the lodge gate; she turned in here, walked up to the well-remembered hall door, and rang the bell. She had no thought of hesitation now; she knew that this was the last time that there was a possibility of recovering the object of her search, and that this chance gone, the will was lost for ever. She had no time to lose, for she calculated that she had hardly three clear hours before the priest's return. It would take him two hours to drive to Sittingbourne; but, the fraud which had been practised upon him once discovered, he would drive back in an hour and a half – three hours and a half in all; certainly not under that, for his horse was a fat, over-fed animal, whose farthest drive was into Canterbury, and who went even that short distance quite at his own pace. So she hoped she should have nearly four hours, but of that three-quarters of an hour was gone already.
The servant who opened the door looked rather surprised at seeing a strange gentleman standing there, for visitors had for many years been quite unknown at Harmer Place.
"I come from Father Eustace," Sophy said, with a strong foreign accent, and in a deep tone, which had cost her great trouble to learn to speak naturally and unfalteringly. "Will you be good enough to give this note to Miss Harmer?"
Sophy was shown into a sitting-room, every object in which she knew so well, and where she had last sat in such a different character. At another time, perhaps, she would have broken down and cried at the thought of the changes since then, but now her whole thoughts were absorbed in the present. She was not excited; she was perfectly cool and collected; her pulse beat faster, and there was a strange, wild look in her eyes, which she was conscious of herself, and strove to keep down and conceal; otherwise she was perfectly quiet, and hardly moved from the seat she had taken when she entered the room, scarcely even looking round at the familiar furniture, but sitting with her eyes fixed on the door, waiting her summons to go upstairs.
The servant took the letter up to Miss Harmer. She was sitting up in bed, partly supported by pillows. She was a very old woman now, and her once upright form had become bent, and her firm step grown feeble and uncertain for some time past; but her face was little changed; her eye was as bright, and her voice as cold and harsh as of old, sounding more strangely now, coming from the decrepid form.
"Is it Father Eustace, Hannah?"
"No, Miss Harmer; it is a gentleman with a letter from him." And the servant gave her the letter.
"Draw down the blinds, Hannah, and light the candles, and put them on the table by my side."
This done, Miss Harmer opened the letter and read as follows – it was in Italian —
"My dear, Sister,
"I have just received a letter with the commands of my superior, our beloved Bishop of Ravenna, to proceed at once to London upon a special mission, which will perhaps detain me there for some days. He has sent these orders by the hands of Father Boniface, one of the most esteemed of his clergy, and in whom I know he reposes the most absolute confidence. He was well known to me in Italy, and I judge, from the manner in which the bishop writes to me, that his business in England is of great importance. He is the bearer of a letter to you. I am unable to visit you before I leave this, as I have only just time to catch the train, and it is necessary that I should reach London to-night. I pray that the Holy Virgin and all the saints may have you in their keeping."
"Bring the gentleman up here," Miss Harmer said, when she had read the letter; and her eyes brightened at the thought of news direct from her beloved friend and guide, the Bishop of Ravenna.
The ecclesiastic entered with the usual benedicte, and then, advancing to the bed, bestowed a particular and solemn benediction upon her, as sent direct from the bishop. He then sat down by her bedside, and inquired, in a tone of earnest sympathy, after her health.
"I am not long for this world, father," she said. "A short time, a very short time, and my place will be empty."
"You have fought a good fight, sister, a good fight for our Church, and you will assuredly win the prize."
"I trust so, father – I do indeed trust so. And now, how is my old friend? is it well with him?"
"It is not, sister. He is ill – very ill, I grieve to say."
"I indeed grieve, father, to hear this news. What is the cause of his illness?"
"A broken constitution. He is worn out with long fastings and continued abstinence and prayer. Once, as you are aware, of a commanding figure, he is bent now with care and thought; his wide brow is furrowed, his hairs are few and white. But his spirit is bright and clear as ever, and his voice smooth and sonorous. The very last time he preached he had to be assisted to his place, but when he once began to speak, his voice still rang with its old tone; he was as vehement in denunciation as ever, as soft and earnest in his persuasions to repentance, as rich in promises and blessings upon those who devote their lives to God and their Church."
Miss Harmer was much affected at this narrative, which called up before her the bishop as she had known him of old; and she asked many more questions of his life and doings.
"You are, I presume, father, by the purity of your accent, a Florentine?"
The priest bowed assent.
"You are, Father Eustace tells me, much in our dear friend's confidence?"
"The good bishop condescends to consult much with my unworthy self upon most matters, and more especially on the subject on which I have now journeyed to England has he spoken often and much. Our good friend believes, and I fear with truth, that his life will not be prolonged many days. Of late this subject has pressed very heavily upon his mind, and he has felt so sorely that so many years of thought and hope might yet be wasted, that he at last told me he could not die easy until this good work was completed and the Church secure of her own. Seeing his deep feeling upon the subject, I offered, should he consider me worthy of so great a trust, to come over here to fetch what he desired, and to convey his last blessing to you. He accepted my offer, and this letter to you will fully explain his wishes."
Miss Harmer took the letter eagerly, looked at the direction, examined the seal, broke it open, and looked onwards to the signature, which she raised reverentially to her lips.
She was very much shocked at the news of her old friend's illness, and yet she could not help feeling a strange thrill of satisfaction to think that their deaths would probably occur within a very few days of each other. She could not have told why she felt so; but she had loved and respected this man beyond all others; loved him, perhaps, far more than she had ever admitted to herself. Had he been other than what he was, a Roman Catholic priest, Cecilia Harmer's life might have turned out a very different one.
The letter began with his usual greeting and benediction; it went on: —
"My days, my dear sister, are drawing fast to a close; yours also, I learn from my brother Eustace, are, as might be expected from your great age, nearly numbered; and you will shortly reap the benefit of all your sacrifices and efforts for the cause of God's holy Church here upon earth. I cannot write at great length, for my strength is failing fast; but there is one thought which weighs heavily upon me, and prevents my feeling that all my work here upon earth is finished. My greatest object in life has been to strengthen and magnify our great and glorious Church. In several cases I have, by the blessing of the holy Saints, succeeded in aiding this great work. In your own case, owing to the noble devotion which you have manifested – and for which your future reward is certain – a property, originally largely derived from the Church, has been preserved from falling into the hands of her enemies. At first you expressed by letter to me the repugnance you felt to destroying the document which would have so willed it away. These scruples you will remember, I respected, although I considered them misplaced; but I would not force the tenderest conscience, and I have forborne in my letters, to urge you upon this point. I find, however, from Father Eustace, that these scruples have still lingered, and that he believes you have up to this time omitted to destroy the will. But I now feel that this step has become necessary. At your death my dear sister, the property must be sold, and the purchaser will not improbably pull down the house; the will must then be found, and the labour of your life frustrated. It is, therefore, essential that you should now reveal the hiding-place of the will. This I myself have never asked you, but I suppose it is in the secret chamber where you told me that many years ago your ancestors were in the habit of concealing the persecuted servants of our Church. This secret I have confided to Father Boniface. He is entirely in my confidence, so much so, that I have urgently recommended his appointment to this See at my death. I have deputed him especially for the purpose, as it would be better, should any inquiry ever be made, that Father Eustace, who is likely to be suspected, should be able to affirm truly that he had never seen it. I have other reasons into which I cannot now enter, for selecting Father Boniface to perform this service in his place. As I before told you, although I cannot agree with your scruples, I am yet willing to respect them; and, therefore, as you feel that you would not like the will to be destroyed, I promise most solemnly to you on the faith of a bishop of the Church, and of a dying man, that it shall not be destroyed, but shall be placed among the papers of the monastery here, where it will never be disturbed or discovered. My doctor gives me only a week of life. Father Boniface will travel night and day, and can only stay a few hours with you, and I trust that I shall be spared until his return. And now, sister, farewell."
The letter concluded with numberless blessings and farewells, and was signed Ravenna .
Miss Harmer read this letter through twice with great deliberation, so much so indeed, that her visitor moved uneasily several times upon her chair.
"You know the contents of this letter, Father Boniface?" she asked at length.
"I do, Miss Harmer, it was written in my presence."
"And you agree that the will is likely to be found?"
"Unquestionably, Miss Harmer. The trustees to whom you have devised the property for the benefit of the Church must sell it; and when the house is pulled down, as it is certain to be ere long, the will will be discovered, grievous loss and scandal brought upon the church, and discredit upon your memory."
"The bishop has promised me that it shall not be destroyed," Miss Harmer said, hesitatingly.
"I ratify that promise, Miss Harmer. Should I return too late, and our dear friend be no more, I promise you that the will shall be preserved in the way he mentions."
Miss Harmer was silent for some time, and then said —
"Father Boniface, before you search for the will, I must tell you, that it is my solemn conviction that the spirit of my brother keeps watch over that will."
"Any spirit that there be who would prevent this work being completed," the priest said gravely, "must needs be an evil spirit, and such, I, acting in the Church's behalf, do not fear. Tell me where it is that I may at once perform my errand."
"I do not know, remember, that the will is in existence. I have never looked for it, and have all along said with truth that I know nothing of it. But, if it be in existence, I believe that it is placed in a secret hiding-place in the chamber, to which you know the means of entrance; going up from that room to what was my brother's room, is another flight of stairs, go up five steps and you are standing upon the secret hiding-place; look closely by the side of the step, and you will see a small projection; press that, and the step will open by itself. You are not afraid, father?"
"I am not," the priest said, rising and taking a candle in his hand. "In a good cause the servant of the Church fears not the powers of evil." And with these words she was gone.
There was not a moment to be lost, the time had flown by terribly fast, and terrible had been the effort to speak quietly and collectively when every pulse throbbed with excitement and impatience; but she had the secret at last.
With rapid, but noiseless steps, she sped down the stairs. The hall was empty. She knelt down upon the hearth with breathless eagerness; the tongue of the iron dog was unscrewed, and the spring clicked in another instant; then a trembling passing of the fingers at the back of the mantel piece; in a few moments she felt the projecting nob, and the door swung round on its hinges beside her. Taking up her candle, she flew up the narrow steps; she had no fear now of interruption from below, for no one passing through the hall would notice that open door in the fireplace. Up the first flight, into the secret chamber, and then up again. She knelt down upon the third step, and then looked at the wall by the step above her. The slight projection was visible, she pressed it, and the step rolled back, and disclosed a sort of receptacle, the width of the stair, and about a foot deep, filled with papers. She turned these over, her breath held, her hands trembling with excitement, her eyes staring and wild. The first three or four which she threw out were leases and deeds; the next that she came to was a bulky packet endorsed upon its back —The last Will and Testament of Herbert Harmer. Sophy seized it with a short sharp cry of delight, and then hurried down into the hall again. She closed the iron door behind her; blew out the candle, placed it on the table; and then opened the hall door, and without hat or covering on her head she flew down the drive at the top of her speed. She had it then at last, after all these years; it was hers, hers and her boy's! and Sophy with the greatest difficulty repressed the wild cries of delight which rose to her lips. Once past the lodge she kept on at her full speed towards the village, but when she reached the top of the hill she paused to listen. Below her she could see the bright lamps of an approaching vehicle, and in the still night air could hear the noise of a vehicle coming up the hill, and a man's voice urging the horse to his best speed. So she was only just in time. Father Eustace had returned. She hid herself behind a hedge, and as they came along, she could tell by the laboured breathing of the horse how fast he had been driven, and she could even catch what the men, who were walking up the hill to relieve it, were saying. The first voice she heard was that of the priest.
"It is most extraordinary, Thomas; I cannot understand it. That I should be sent for over to Sittingbourne was annoying enough; but I thought that was only a foolish trick, though who would have taken the trouble to play it upon me I cannot imagine: but now that we find the house locked up, and Mary gone, I can still less understand what it means, especially as in the hasty search I gave I found nothing missing."
"Perhaps she has gone out to see some friend in the village," the man suggested.
"But I tell you, Thomas, she has left the clothes which she wore in her room; and more extraordinary still, there is the black wig which I have observed she wore laying on the bed. It is most singular and looks like a deep plot of some sort or other."
"But why are you going up to Harmer Place, sir?" the groom asked. "Surely they will know nothing about it there?"
"I cannot say," the priest said anxiously. "There Thomas, we are at the top of the hill now! Jump up again!"
And so they went on; and Sophy came out and continued her flight down the steep hill at the top of her speed, and far faster than she could have run in her ordinary attire. Going through the village, she went more quietly – not that she feared interruption, for it was eleven now, and the village was all asleep, but she wanted to husband her powers. As she walked she took off the stiff collar which pressed on her neck, and directly she was past the houses she began to run again at a speed of which at ordinary times she would have been incapable, but which in her present state of excitement and exultation seemed nothing to her.
She had been only just in time; it had taken longer than she had expected, for she had hoped to have reached Canterbury before she met the priest, when she would have gone straight to a lawyer whom she had known in the old times, and deposited the precious document in his hands. She had before determined that if pressed for time she would conceal the will in a thicket and suffer herself to be taken; but all this was forgotten now – her brain had held up thus far, but it was failing her. The only impulse in her mind was that of flight, that and a fierce determination to defend the will to the last. As she ran, she felt in her pocket to see that a pistol she had placed there was safe. She took it out, and with it in one hand and the will in the other, she ran on past the great mill and on over the bridge out into the long straight road to Canterbury.
CHAPTER XIII
A VAIN PURSUIT
For nearly a mile Sophy ran, hope and excitement lending her unnatural strength and speed. Then for a little time she broke into a walk, drawing her breath in short quick sobs. She looked round as she stopped running, but there was no light on the road behind her, nothing to tell of pursuit. Before she had walked a hundred yards, she again turned, and far behind her along the straight road she saw the two bright lights, and felt that it was the gig in pursuit, felt, too, that she could never reach Canterbury before she was overtaken. She turned again to run, for her only thought now was of flight. On one side of the road ran a deep dyke full of water, on the other the country was open, so that had she thought of leaving the road and concealing herself, she could still have done so. But no such thought entered her mind; her only hope was to gain the town in time, or if overtaken to defend the will with her life. Could she have run with her former speed, she would have been there, but her breath came short and hard, and she could scarcely keep at a pace beyond a walk. Once or twice she looked wildly over her shoulder. The lights gained fast, terribly fast, upon her; she had not much farther to go, but she felt that before that little was past, the gig would be up to her. She could hear the sound of wheels, and of the galloping horse behind her, but the barracks were close to her now, and if she could but enter them she would be safe; but the gig was gaining too fast upon her, and as she reached the corner of the barracks it was just behind her. She stopped suddenly in the middle of the road, and before the horse could be pulled up he was almost upon her. She levelled her pistol and fired in his face; she did not wound him, but startled, by the flash and report close to his eyes, the animal reared up, struck wildly out with its forefeet, and then wheeling round, dashed back at full speed, along the road it had come. Sophy continued her flight: on through the turnpike the bar of which stood across the road; along by the side of the long iron railings, and past the closed entrance to the cavalry barracks; she could hear her pursuers behind her again, but feeble and slow as her pace was now, she felt that she was saved. Breathless and faint, stumbling and nearly falling, she held on as far as the gate of the infantry barracks. It was open, and a party of officers were just coming in from the town.
She was but just in time; for she could hear footsteps following fast behind her, for on reaching the gate Father Eustace had not waited for it to be opened, but had leaped out and had run on on foot. Sophy did not hesitate a moment, but rushed in among the group of officers. She clung to the one nearest to her, with a hoarse cry, and panted out, "Save me! I am a woman; I am Mr. Harmer's grand-daughter, and this is his will: don't give it up – don't let him have it – don't let" – and Sophy sank in a lifeless heap at the officers' feet. When she first began to speak, there had been a general exclamation of astonishment, but now they all clustered round her, and the eldest of them raised her from the ground. He had hardly done so, when the group was broken again, and Father Eustace burst in among them: "I charge you to deliver that man up to me; he is a thief – he has stolen a deed, a document of value. Ah!" he exclaimed suddenly, seeing it in the hand of the officer, into whose hold Sophy had thrust it when she came in, and who still retained it in his hand, although hardly knowing that he did so, so surprised and bewildered were they all by this strange scene.
"You have it – give it to me, sir," and he made an effort to snatch at it.
"No, no, sir," the officer said. "The priest or woman, or whatever it is, begged me to keep it, and I don't even know that it belongs to you; what do you say, major?"
"Certainly not," said the officer who was porting Sophy; "by no means, Featherstone. This is a serious matter."
Father Eustace again made an effort to possess himself of the will. He saw the labour of years slipping from him now, and he would have stopped at nothing to regain the will. He again pushed forward, exclaiming —
"It is my paper – it is my paper; she has stolen it. You dare not keep it from me."
"Stand back, sir," the young officer who was holding the will said, "or else, priest or no priest, down you go."
"Sir," the major said, "violence will do no good here, nor are we likely to be alarmed at your threats. This is a very serious affair. I was stationed here eight years ago, and I was then often over at Mr. Harmer's, and knew his grand-daughter well. I do not know whether this person dressed as a man is she, but I have heard that she ran away many years ago, and that at Mr. Harmer's death the will which would have made her his heiress was missing. For aught I know that paper which she has just brought in may be the will after all. Hold it up to the light, Featherstone, and see what it says."
"By Jove, major!" the young officer said, examining it, "it is endorsed 'The last will and testament of Herbert Harmer,' sure enough."
"It is a forgery," the priest broke out, "it is an infamous forgery. I insist on having it. I warn you at your peril, sir, to detain it."
"I will take the risk of that, sir," the major said coolly; "and as you say it was stolen from you, it is evident that the forgery, if it be one, was not committed by this person here. Your own words convict you, sir. There, say no more. My name is Charteris – Major Charteris, and any charge you may bring against this lady, for so I believe her to be, I will be responsible that she shall appear to answer it, and I will hold this will till it is proved who is the proper person to take charge of it. I have nothing more to say, sir. Hankey, help me to carry this lady up to my rooms. Leighton, I wish you would run up to the mess-room, and ask the doctor to come round to my quarters at once."
And so the officers moved off in a body, talking among themselves of the strange event, the two priests, one a woman, and the will, which seemed of such importance. "'Pon my soul, it's quite a romance;" and so talking they went up towards their barracks, leaving the priest standing, rigid and ghastly, looking after them. How long he might have stood there, with a strange whirl of despairing thoughts surging up in his heart, I cannot say. He stood there till the sergeant of the guard who had heard all that had passed, after speaking to him twice, and receiving no answer, came up and touched him on the shoulder, and said —
"I am going to close the gate, sir."
The priest looked at him for a moment as if not understanding him, then he threw up his hands despairingly, and with a low moaning cry, turned round and went out as if in a dream. Mechanically he got up into his gig which was standing there, and then with a wild hopeless look in his eyes, he cowered down, while his servant drove the weary horse off into the darkness again.
Major Charteris was a married man, and his wife at once took charge of Sophy, and with the maid's assistance undressed the insensible woman and put her into bed, by which time the doctor arrived. But it was a long time before she showed any signs of returning consciousness.
Presently the major went down into the mess-room where the other officers were sitting, discussing this singular adventure, smoking many cigars and pipes over their consultation, and making various bets as to the result. His entrance was greeted with a shout —
"Well, major, how is the fair priest?"
"She is very ill," the major said seriously, "she has recovered from her faint, but she is quite unconscious, and the doctor talks about brain fever."
"Is she Mr. Harmer's grand-daughter, major?"
"I cannot say for certain, Featherstone, although I should think that she is, but she is so changed I should not have known her again in the least; besides, all her hair is cut close."
"Let us hear all you know about it, major. What was the will about?"
"I left here nearly a year before Mr. Harmer's death, so I do not know much about it. But I remember at that time it was stated that he had left his property between this girl, whose name was Sophy, and the children of a Dr. Ashleigh. By the way, that reminds me, I met Miss Ashleigh in the High Street only yesterday. I knew her again directly, and some one told me she was living with an old woman named Mapleback – no Mapleside, or something of that sort, in the terrace looking over the market. I know she was a great friend of Sophy's, for we used to talk a good deal about it at that time, as this Sophy was the great heiress of the county. I will go up at once, and get her to come down to the poor woman."
"But, major, it is half-past twelve."
"I can't help that," the major said; "it is right the poor woman, whether she be this Sophy or not, should have her friends by her if possible; besides, if this will is correct – which I have no doubt, or the priest would not be so anxious about it – it is but right that Miss Ashleigh should know of it, as if I remember rightly her share is twenty or thirty thousand pounds."
"By Jove!" one of them said, as the major went out, "I wish that some one would wake me up to-night and tell me I had come into a fortune."
And so they continued talking the matter over while Major Charteris went down into the town.
It was about one o'clock when I was woke up by a loud knocking at the door. I thought it must be a mistake, but after a minute it was repeated. I got up and went to the window, and heard Hannah moving overhead. In another minute I heard her throw up her window and ask, —
"What is the matter?"
Then I heard a man's voice below saying, —
"I am really very sorry to disturb you, but does not Miss Ashleigh live here?"
"Yes she does," Hannah said; "but what do you want at this time of night?"
"My name is Major Charteris. I must speak to Miss Ashleigh at once. It is a matter of great importance, almost of life and death, or I would not disturb her at this hour. Please give her my message."
I had struck a light by this time, and began dressing hurriedly. What could he want? what could be the matter? I opened the door and called out to Hannah to put on her things at once, and that I would be ready in five minutes. I do not think I was ever so puzzled in my life as I was while I was dressing at that time. I could not form the slightest conjecture what it could be about – not the slightest. If I had not heard him speak, and listened to his regular tramp as he walked up and down outside, I should have thought that he must have been drinking, and that all this must be some tipsy frolic. But the earnest, steady tones of his voice precluded the possibility of this supposition; and I really could form no other. I do not think I was more than five minutes dressing, and putting my hair in a net, and just as I was ready I heard Hannah coming downstairs. I went out of my room, and down into the parlour. I lit the two candles on the mantelpiece, and then stood anxiously waiting while Hannah unbolted the front door; in another minute the major entered.
